THE old London taverns and chop houses are disappearing year by year, but there are a few quaint survivals which are interesting. Take it that on some winter’s evening, we have passed through old Holywell Street, where the gas is flaring wildly over the doors, and emerge at the foot of the picturesque St. Clement Danes’ tower, in whose belfry windows are red lights, while its bells are clanging away noisily, worked by the strong arms of “the College of Bell Ringers.” We hurry on, passing through the old Bar, which once seemed like entering a fortified town, and only wanted a drawbridge; then see to the left, over a little low porch, the illuminated beacon of “The Cock,” cheerfully inviting entrance. The long bent passage, with the swing-door at the end, had an air of ineffable comfort—there was a glimpse of the cozy bar beyond. To the right hand, as the swing-door opened and shut, you saw the jovial red curtains within, the blackened mahogany boxes, the hats hung up, and the sanded floor. It seemed like a whiff of the “Old Maypole.” You understood at once the significance of Dickens’s old inns, which he seemed to revel in. How snug that corner seat near the fire—just holding two—with the stout table in front—the kettle singing close to you—from below came the sound of cheerful hissing, as the tender chops or “dinner steak” was being prepared “to follow” or not, as it might be—to be succeeded again by the peculiar “rare-bit,” the unapproachable stout, fine port, and finer whiskey!

It was a curious sensation to find refuge here after a weary day, and look round on the characteristic figures, mostly solitary, dried up, old lawyers, who have spent their day in company with deeds and papers. They would have their tumblers of old Scotch—more as a companion for their thoughts—and you could see their faces wandering placidly to the fire as if tracing some of their favourite quiddities and quillets there. Here, too, was to be found the adventurer come to seek his fortune in the great town, brooding over the buffets already met with, planning how to fend off others, yet finding a soothing comfort in the placid retirement of the old hostel.

“I may here mention,” wrote an old City solicitor named Jay, “that the ‘Cock Tavern’ in Fleet Street has been a noted resort of lawyers for more than two centuries. When I first went there, no chops or steaks were cooked, but gentlemen and tradesmen went there in the afternoon to smoke their pipes (cigars being then very little used). The landlord at that time held a high position in Whitbread’s brewery. It was at this time kept open during the night, and until the early hours of morning were far advanced it was often a difficult matter to find an unoccupied seat. The gentlemen who frequented it were members of the Temple and other Inns of Court, and used their own silver tankards bearing their crests, which were exposed to view against the wall of the bar or coffee-room; and I have still many pleasant reminiscences of oyster and other suppers furnished at this house; a man from a neighbouring fishmonger’s being specially retained to open oysters for the numerous customers, who with sharp appetites kept him fully employed.”

To many persons who have never entered a tavern in their lives, “The Cock” had a certain charm of association, mainly owing to its having been celebrated in verse by the Poet Laureate. Perhaps few, again, are familiar with all he has said or sung upon the subject, contenting themselves with the oft-quoted lines to the “plump head waiter at ‘The Cock,’” which gave that personage an immortality. The lines on “Will Waterproof’s” visit have an extraordinary charm of pensive retrospect and solitary meditation, and convey an idea of the tone of the old place, and of the fancies it is likely to engender in some solitary and perhaps depressed guest. A series of pictures and moods is unfolded in this charming poem, a sort of dreamy rumination and pleasant sadness; visions float upwards in the curling fumes of the smoker’s “long clay.” But only a great poet could extract a refined quintessence from the mixed vapours of chops and steaks.

WILL WATERPROOF’S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.

MADE AT “THE COCK.”

This sketch of the “head waiter at the ‘Cock,’” is the portion of the poem that is the best known and oftenest quoted. But the rest is full of noble, sad pictures.

The region about is a sort of tavern-land; there used to be a strange ramshackle place opposite, “Tom’s,” or “Sam’s,” or “Joe’s,” (we forget which), with the old “Rainbow”; and hard by was “Carr’s”—the older “Carr’s,”—which owed its repute to a sentence in “Household Words,” which praised the “capital cut off the joint, washed down by a pint of good Burgundy.”

You passed through a little squeezed and panelled passage to enter “The Cock,” and at the end of the passage was seen the little window of the “snuggery,” or bar, most inviting on a winter’s night, with something simmering on the hob. There sat one whom we might call “Miss Abbey”—like Dickens’s directress of the “Fellowship Porters”—to whom came the waiters, to receive the good hunches, “new or stale?” which she, according to old unvarying rule, chalked down, or up, on the mahogany sill of the door. All was duly sawdusted. The ceiling of the long, low tavern room seemed on our heads. The windows small, like skylights, opened upon the hilly passage or lane outside. There were “boxes” or pews all round, with green curtains, of mahogany black as ebony. But the coveted places—say about a sharp Christmas-time—were the two that faced the good fire, on which sang a huge kettle. The curious old chimney-piece over it was of carved oak, with strange grinning faces, one of which used to delight Dickens, who invited people’s attention to it particularly. There was a quaintness, too, in the china trays for the pewter mugs, each decorated with an effigy of a cock. On application, those in office produced to you a well-thumbed copy of Defoe’s “History of the Plague,” where allusion is made to the establishment, and also a little circular box, in which was carefully preserved one of the copper tokens of the house—a little lean, battered piece, with the device of a cock, and the inscriptions “The Cock Alehouse,” and “C. H. M. ATT. TEMPLE BARR, 1655.” The Intelligencer, No. 45, contains the following advertisement: “This is to notify that the Master of the Cock and Bottle, commonly called the Cock Alehouse, at Temple Bar, hath dismissed his servants and shut up his house for this long vacation, intending (God willing) to return at Michaelmas next, so that all persons whatsoever, who have any Accompts with the said master, or Farthings belonging to the said house, are desired to repair thither before the 8th of this instant July, and they shall receive satisfaction.”

It is a pity to find that there is not the conservative continuity in the line of waiters which should be found in such a place. They seem to come and go—go rather than come. They used to be all “in key,” as it were—had grown stout and old in the service. Latterly, time, in its whirligig changes, had brought round changes almost revolutionary, and we found strange, unsuitable beings in office. One was a dry, wiry man of despotic character, who administered on the new modern principles, unsuited to the easy-going manners of the place. He dealt with the customers in a prompt, almost harsh style. He knew and recognized no distinction between old frequenters and new. I fancy he was not popular. His place was really in the new “restaurants”; but here among the “boxes” and pews, and on the sanded floor, he was an anachronism. With the old habituÉs he was a perfect fly in the ointment. When he found himself unpopular, he adopted a strange device to recommend himself—the compounding a curious sauce, which he called “Pick-ant,” and which he invited guests to try. It did not much avail him, and death has since removed him to pay his own score.

Mr. Mark Lemon, who had to pass the tavern every day on his road to the “Punch” office, lower down, has laid a scene in one of his novels at the little tavern.

In early days, when the then unknown Tennyson dwelt in lofty chambers up behind the balustraded parapet of No. 57 Lincoln’s Inn Fields (west side), he used to resort to the “Cock” for his quiet five-o’clock dinner, where after a pint of the special port, he probably wrote the famous verses on Will.

An American visitor was fortunate enough to see the poet engaged in discussing the favourite delicacies of the place:—

“I had the good fortune the other day to come upon Tennyson taking his chop and kidney at that house, some three doors above the old Temple Bar, which he has made famous, the ‘Cock.’ I had the curiosity to look for the ‘half pint of port’ in the poem, but I saw at the bard’s elbow no wine, fruity or crusted, but a plain pewter of stout, which the author of ‘Locksley Hall’ discussed like any northern farmer of them all. He is aged and worn, and bent in the back, with hollow chest; but I think these are rather the effects of a brooding habit of mind and body than the marks of physical debility, for he looked tough and muscular. Tennyson is not a beauty. There was the head-waiter at the ‘Cock,’ and it was fine to see him waiting on the Laureate. The man was tremendously conscious of his distinction, and kept watching guests out of the corner of his eye, to see if they were admiring him. His manner to Mr. Tennyson was delightful, at once respectful and friendly—just as if he felt himself a partner in the work which has given the ‘Cock’ a sort of literary reputation.”

There were old rites and customs of service maintained according to tradition. Your good clay pipe was brought to you, and the twist of good and fragrant tobacco. An anchorite or Temperance League man would find it hard to resist the apparatus for mixing the “brew” of “hot drink” or “Scotch,” the little pewter “noggin,” the curling rind of lemon with the more juicy fragment of the interior, and the tiny glass holding a sufficiency of sugar, with the neat black jug filled from the copper kettle always boiling on the hob.

Alas! we have now to lament the fate of the pleasant, social snug old “Cock.” In course of time the buildings around it fell into decay, or were demolished. The Law Courts were built and opened; the fish shop close by was taken down and removed to another district. To this state of things it came at last—that every house near it had gone, and there only remained a sort of little tunnel with the swinging glass door, with the gilt, defiant Cock above, while behind was the old tavern, standing solitary in its decay. People wondered at this vitality, and how in the general wreck and destruction the old hostel was not swept off. But the heroic Colnett kept his ground. The old liquor, the old pipe and “screws” were still supplied as of yore. The customers were staunch. But, what consternation, when, one morning it became known that the gilt presentment of the bird—the supposed “Grinling”—had disappeared, had been stolen in a vulgar way, much as the famous Gainsborough Duchess had been cut from her frame! Now it was felt indeed that the charm was gone; there was nothing to rally round. Still we clung to the old place. But, somehow, with the loss of the bird it was felt that a change had come over the place.

But the last stroke came. One day it struck the visitor that the chop had lost the old succulent flavour. It was a good chop, but had not the aroma. So marked was this that inquiry was made. “The meat was good—the best Spiers and Pond could supply.” What! Had it come to this! Spiers and Pond! Yes, it was true—the eminent caterers had taken over the place—the “Cock” of the Plague, of Pepys, of Tennyson, and of the Templars! This was a sad business—the knell of the place was rung. As the bird was gone the nest might go too. After that blow I fled the place and never returned.

The end was not long in coming. The eminent firm of caterers did not long pursue their venture. In a very short time hoardings began to be set up, the tunnel was invaded, and the “Cock” closed for ever. Farewell now to the dreaming, ruminating winter’s night, the mellow Scotch, the screw of Birdseye. The last incident connected with this destruction was, however, appropriate enough. One of the famous old tankards, adorned with a suitable inscription—“a pint pot neatly graven”—was sent to the Poet who, we say, had done so much for the place. The Laureate wrote gracefully:—

On the site of the old Tavern, where was the fish shop, etc., the Bank of England has just reared a splendid and imposing Italian edifice, which harmonizes well with the Law Courts. The proprietor has moved to the other side of the street, taking with him all his properties—the old mahogany boxes, fireplace, tankards, etc.—reconstructing a sort of ghostly “Cock.” Even the gilt bird, a very spirited piece of work, even if not Grinling’s, flourishes away over the door. But it is not the same thing—can never be.[18]

There were two other taverns almost vis-À-vis, and each with antique claims. One, “The Rainbow,” which boasts a remote pedigree. But though you enter in the favourite Fleet Street style, through a narrow passage, the place itself has undergone much restoration. “Dicks’” the other, was down one of the Temple lanes, dark and grimed, and somewhat rudely appointed, as though it wished to rest its claims entirely upon its “chops and steaks,” and upon nothing else. “Dicks’” used to be labelled outside “Ben Jonson’s Noted House,” and boasted of having enjoyed the custom of that eminent man. “Dicks’” however, has gone. It has fallen into the hands of Germans, who hold a table d’hÔte.

The art and science of cooking chops is not nearly so highly esteemed as it used to be in the last century, when noblemen and gentlemen frequented taverns, and clubs did not exist, save at taverns. The history of the lately revived Beefsteak Club is familiar; its huge gridiron is still to be seen in its old feasting room at the Lyceum Theatre, with its admirable motto, “If it were done when ’tis done,” etc. The greatest chop and steak eater of his day, and patron of this club, was the Duke of Norfolk, a gross and coarse feeder, who often astounded visitors by his consumption of successive steaks brought in “hot and hot,” and consumed voraciously.

Fleet Street, interesting in so many ways, is remarkable for the curious little courts and passages into which you make entry, under small archways. These are “Johnson’s Court,” “Bolt Court,” “Racquet Court,” and the like. Indeed, it is evident that the strange little passage which led to the “Cock” must have been originally an entrance to one of these courts on which the tavern gradually encroached. Much the same are found in the Borough, only these lead into greater courts and inn yards. But in Fleet Street there is one that is specially interesting. We can fancy the Doctor tramping up to his favourite tavern, the “Cheshire Cheese.”

Passing into the dark alley known as “Wine Office Court,” we come to a narrow flagged passage, the house or wall on the other side quite close, and excluding the light. The “Cheese” looks, indeed, a sort of dark den, an inferior public-house, its grimed windows like those of a shop, which we can look in at from the passage. On entering, there is the little bar facing us, and always the essence of snugness and cosiness; to the right a small room, to the left a bigger one. This is the favourite tavern, with its dirty walls and sawdusted floor, a few benches put against the wall, and two or three plain tables of the rudest kind. The grill is heard hissing in some back region, where the chop or small steak is being prepared; and it may be said en passant, that the flavour and treatment of the chop and “small dinner steak”—are there breakfast and luncheon steaks also?—are quite different from those “done” on the more pretentious grills which have lately sprung up. On the wall is a testimonial portrait of a rather bloated waiter—Todd, I think, by name—quite suggestive of the late Mr. Liston. He is holding up his corkscrew of office to an expectant guest, either in a warning or exultant way, as if he had extracted the cork in a masterly style. Underneath is a boastful inscription that it was painted in 1812, to be hung up as an heirloom and handed down, having been executed under the reign of Dolamore, who then owned the place. Strange to say, the waiter of the “Cheshire Cheese” has been sung, like his brother at the “Cock,” but not by such a bard. There is a certain irreverence; but the parody is a good one:—

It has its regular habituÉs; and on Saturday or Friday there is a “famous rump-steak pie,” which draws a larger attendance; for it is considered that you may search the wide world round without matching that succulent delicacy. These great savoury meat pies do not kindle the ardour of many persons, being rather strong for the stomachs of babes.

Well, then, hither it was that Dr. Johnson used to repair. True, neither Boswell, nor Hawkins, nor after them Mr. Croker, take note of the circumstance; but there were many things that escaped Mr. Croker, diligent as he was. There is, however, excellent evidence of the fact. A worthy solicitor named Jay—who is garrulous but not unentertaining in a book of anecdotes which he has written—frequented the “Cheshire Cheese” for fifty years, during which long tavern life, he says, “I have been interested in seeing young men when I first went there, who afterwards married; then in seeing their sons dining there, and often their grandsons, and much gratified by observing that most of them succeeded well in life. This applies particularly to the lawyers, with whom I have so often dined when students, when barristers, and some who were afterwards judges.

“During the time I have frequented this house there have been only three landlords—Mr. Carlton, Mr. Dolamore, and Mr. Beaufoy Moore, the present one; and during each successive occupation the business has increased. I may here mention that when I first visited the house, I used to meet several very old gentlemen who remembered Dr. Johnson nightly at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’; and they have told me, what is not generally known, that the Doctor, whilst living in the Temple, always went to the ‘Mitre’ or the ‘Essex Head’; but when he removed to Gough Square and Bolt Court he was a constant visitor at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’, because nothing but a hurricane would have induced him to cross Fleet Street. All round this neighbourhood, if you want to rent a room or an office, you are sure to be told that it was once the residence of either Dr. Johnson or Oliver Goldsmith! Be that as it may, it is an interesting locality, and a pleasing sign—the ‘Old Cheshire Cheese Tavern,’ Wine Office Court, Fleet Street—which will afford the present generation, it is hoped, for some time to come, an opportunity of witnessing the kind of tavern in which our forefathers delighted to assemble for refreshment.”[19]

Doctor Johnson died in 1788—and this solicitor’s acquaintance with the place began scarcely twenty years after the Doctor’s death. The old frequenter’s memory would therefore have been very fresh. His style too, is pleasant. This worthy reminiscent dedicates his labours, in a quaint inscription, “To the Lawyers and Gentlemen with whom I have dined for more than half a century at the ‘Old Cheshire Cheese Tavern,’ Wine Office Court, Fleet Street; this work is respectfully dedicated by their obedient servant, Cyrus Jay.”

On the other side of Fleet Street we can see the “Mitre Tavern,” closing up the end of a court—but not the old original “Mitre,” where Johnson sat with Boswell. It was pulled down within living memory, and with it the corner in which the sage used to sit, and which was religiously marked by his bust. Yet, even as it stands in its restoration, there is something quaint in the feeling, as you enter a low, covered passage from Fleet Street, and see its cheerful open door at the end. There are other taverns with such approaches in the street. The “Old Bell” is curiously retired. The passage to the “Mitre” is as it was in Johnson’s day, and his eyes must have been often raised to the old beams that support its roof. Even in its modern shape it retains much that is old-fashioned and rococo. It is like a country tavern in London, with its “ordinary” at noon—and a good one too—and its retirement; so close and yet so far from the hum and clatter of Fleet Street.

From the old tavern we pass into the open place where St. Clement Danes stands—one of the most Dutch-like spots in London, to which idea the quaint and rather elegant tower lends itself. To hear its chimes, not at midnight, but on some December evening, when the steeple is projected on a cold blue background, while you can see the shadows of the ringers in the bell-tower, offers a picturesque effect. The bells fling out their janglings more wildly than any peal in London: they are nearer the ground, and the hurly-burly is melodious enough. Those tones the Doctor often heard in Gough Square and Bolt Court, and within he had his favourite seat, to this day reverently marked by a plate and inscription. Yet St. Clement’s is in a precarious way, and before many years its fate will be decided.

It is perhaps Gough Square, to which one of the little passages out of Fleet Street leads, that most faithfully preserves the memory of Johnson. It is rather a court than a square; so small is it that carriages could never have entered, and it is surrounded with good old brick houses that in their day were of some pretensions. The Society of Arts has fixed a tablet in the wall, recording that “Here lived Samuel Johnson.” The houses are of a good, sound old brick; some have carved porticoes, and one is set off by two rather elegant Corinthian pilasters. There is a pleasant flavour of grave old fashion and retirement about the place, and little has as yet been touched or pulled down. Johnson’s house faces us, and is about the most conspicuous. He had, of course, merely rooms, as it is a rather large mansion; a little shaken and awry, queerly shaped about the upper story, but snug and compact. It was lately a “commercial family boarding-house,” and the hall is “cosy” to a degree, with its panelled dado running round and up the twisted stairs, in short easy lengths of four or five steps, with landings—which would suit the Doctor’s chest. The whole is in harmony. We can see him labouring up the creaking stairs. A few peaceful traders are in occupation of the Square—printers, and the like. It is an old-world spot, has an old-world air, and suggests a snug country inn.

But, turning back to Essex Street, and not many doors down on the left, at the corner of a little cross passage leading to the pretty Temple gate, with its light iron work, we come on the “Essex Head Tavern,” an old, mean public-house of well-grimed brick. It was here, in his decay, that Johnson set up a kind of inferior club. Boswell is angry with Hawkins for calling it an “alehouse,” as if in contempt; but certainly, while the “Cheshire Cheese,” the “Mitre,” and the “Cock” are taverns, this seems to have been more within the category of an ale or public-house. It has been so rearranged and altered to suit the intentions and purposes of the modern “public,” that there is no tracing its former shape. In the passage there is a little room known as the “parlour,” underneath which accommodation has been found for a cobbler’s stall. The proprietors should surely have Johnson’s “rules” hung up. Probably they never heard of his name.